The Little Red Rose

Roses are red, violets are blue;

I give up my ass, to only but a few.

There’s something strange about getting flowers.

It makes my ass crave dick for hours.

Oh, but this puerile little poem is just a metaphor,

The words sheepishly spewing from the mind of a whore.

So, one would be correct, were one to assume,

I don’t give a flying fuck about the flowers that bloom.

I am here to tell you, as one that well-knows,

There’s a hidden meaning behind the little red rose.

Nevermind the violets, they were a cheap cliche,

To help serve as a catalyst for what I have to say.

The reason for all this pedantic circumlocution,

Is none other than the maladroit execution,

Of some mediocre wordsmithing and a painful attempt to rhyme,

So that I might impress upon you the value of my time.

For what I humbly do, is said to be “the oldest profession,”

Though, dear friends, I have a confession:

Whether that’s true, no one really knows,

But one of its symbols, is the little red rose.

One Reply to “The Little Red Rose”

  1. … the new Walt Whitman of American poetry – grin – well, with a slight (and very hot and stimulating and lustful) twist …

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.